Tell Him, Show Him, I Don't Care
by FlappieDungeon
Summary: It's Sherlock meeting John's family, yes. But with a little twist.


"John, what do you usually get your mum for Christmas?"

"I usually just sit by her grave and have a bit of a cry."

"What?"

"What?"

After a moment of awkward silence, John mumbles an incoherent excuse about his laundry and flees to his room.

* * *

"I don't know what happened."

"You're an idiot."

"He tells me that often enough, thanks."

"Are you going to tell him everything?"

John snorts in reply.

"I'm insulted that you don't talk about us, John."

"... Don't you have things to do?"

"Like what, get drunk before noon? Shut up."

"Harry, there's nothing to tell."

"Of course not. All he knows about your family is that you have an alcoholic brother" - they both snigger in unison - "and that you have no other relative to care for you, you miserable sod. Ah, and that you don't like me much."

"I _don't_ like you."

"The more you tell yourself that, the sooner you'll have yourself convinced."

"How's mum?"

"Fine."

"It's so cute when you try lying to me."

"Your Sherlock is bad influence. You'd never have said that to me before."

"He'll be flattered, I'm sure."

"So?"

"I can't, Harry. If I tell him, he'll think I'm crazy and I don't know _what_ I'd do if I have to move out and leave him behind."

John swears that he can _hear_ Harry roll her eyes at him. He buries his face in his pillow, and briefly wonders if he's acting like a 15-year-old girl with boyfriend problems.

"You'll live."

He groans into the pillow and decides not to care.

"I forgot how cheery you are."

"Ta. John, you great idiot, he's not going to ask you to move out because of this."

"Hah. So how exactly do you think he'll react when I tell him, 'Oh hey, Sherlock, are those_ fingers_ in the toaster, how wonderful, also did you know that I can go back in time to meet my deceased family once a bloody year'?"

"Wow, Johnny, when you say it like that, you actually _do_ sound like a maniac. They should have you sectioned."

"I don't know why I bother with you."

"Cause you love me."

In reply, he lets out another pained groan to summarize his feelings. Harry's cackle is briefly interrupted by the static noise of the phone line, and his heart plummets to the ground for a moment.

"Harry. Harry, you there? Harry? Har-"

"You're like a mother hen, geez. Worse than mum."

"No one's worse than mum."

"John."

_Uh-oh_. She sounds kind now. She's about to say something meaningful. John doesn't want to hear it. For more reasons than one.

"I don't want to hear it."

"Foolish child."

"You sound like grandma now. She's dead, you know."

"I'm dead too."

"Hah. That does sound crazy."

"John Hamish Watson. You listen to me. It's your choice whether you'd like Sherlock to know about us. The explanation won't make any sense, you won't make any sense, and the whole thing? _Will not make any sense_."

"You've always loved repetition."

"For God's sake, John, I'm in my imparting-wisdom-to-my-idiot-brother zone now. Shut up."

"Kay."

His smirk stays on his face as she continues.

"Either you tell him, or you don't. But John, you have no idea how much happier you are with him. You've always been sort of a madman, but you've found yourself a _greater_ madman. The maddest of them all. Your brand of crazy. Don't let that go. If anything, he'll be the one who'll understand this best."

"He's a man of science. This... _this_ thing? It'll make him go berserk."

"He does that already, anyway. Just... promise me you'll think about telling him?"

"It'll be easier to show him."

John sighs and rubs his nose with the back of his hand.

"Harry?"

"Oh good lord, John Watson, you're a genius."

"What. What did I do."

"_Show him_. John, you don't have to explain if you can just show him, right? When's Christmas?"

"Next Tuesday."

"So you'll see us early Monday morning on your side, right?"

"Yeah."

"Bring him along."

"I can't just do that. We don't even know if it would work if there's the two of us. There's gotta be like... uh..."

"Rules?"

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

"I freaking represent the lowest form of wit, if that is so. It's an honour."

"I can't... I mean..."

"John, I have to go now. Just. Explain the basic gist of it. Then show him. If it doesn't work, then... pretend you're drunk or something. Okay?"

"I don't k-"

"John. Just think about it. You don't have to show him. But I want you to consider it before you make up your mind."

"I'll do that. I'll think about it."

"Good. I'll tell Mum and Dad you love them, kay?"

"And I love you too, Harry."

"Obviously. Remind me of everything when you see me. And I_ promis_e, I'll call you next year. No matter what."

"I know."

"Take care, Johnny. Say hi to Clara for me?"

He notices that her voice seems a bit broken as she says the last part. It always does.

"Of course. Bye."

* * *

A soldier dies in the line of duty. The family is told. It's heartbreaking. Insanely devastating. Absolutely tragic.

The family of a soldier dies in a car crash. The soldier is told. There aren't any newspaper articles that details the account of how heartbreaking it is for the soldier to deal with such a news. How insanely devastating it is, to be fighting for Queen and country, only to hear that a freaking _car crash_, of all things, is what permanently separates the soldier from the people he tries more than anything to protect. How absolutely tragic, that the soldier has to live life despite having everything he ever loved, taken away from him. Just like that. In the blink of an eye. Without him ever saying goodbye.

John Watson is sitting in front of a computer. His eyes are red, face pale, and his breathing is mostly even, except for the occasional sobs that escape him when he doesn't expect it to. He's been granted access to the computer and internet, because he's supposed to be in a fragile state.

_His whole family died in a car crash, you know. Give him some space._

People are sorry for him. They let him do what he wants, provided it's not anything too extreme.

It's hateful.

John wonders if suicide would be extreme. It's a notion he very briefly contemplates, because his mother would be so disappointed in him if he continues along that train of thought. He then remembers that she's dead, like the rest of his family, so _what does it bloody matter_?

He opens a tab and stares at the Google homepage. He types. He looks at the results. He scans the search results and finds that it doesn't answer his question. He gets up and leaves without turning off the computer.

In the dark room where the bright light of the computer illuminates the screen, are the 236,000,000 results found based on the search:

_what is a soldier supposed to do when his whole family dies_

* * *

"Sherlock, a couple of years back my whole family died in a car crash. My Mum, Dad, Harry, my three-year-old niece. _All of them_. It nearly killed me. Their death... almost resulted in mine. I- don't know. I don't remember much of what happened. I made a promise, that they could have _me_, my life, because I didn't want it anymore, so long they let me see my family one more time.

And then. It happened. It was Christmas Eve. I woke up in my room, Mum's in the kitchen yelling at Dad for breaking another bowl, because Dad's terrible at doing the dishes; Harry's in her room with Sophie, without Clara because they're having problems; and I just jumped off the bed and I went over to Mum and I hugged her and cried.

They all looked at me like I was crazy, and I tried explaining that they'd all_ died_ on me and that they can't _ever_ do that to me again, b-but they all thought I got drunk the night before. Harry was the only one to notice that I was sober, though completely hysterical, and she took me upstairs and made me tell her everything.

It was just then that I looked in the mirror. I was without a scar, without bloody wrinkles even, and apparently, I'm 28 again. Harry tells me that I won't be deployed for a couple more years, cause I've got training to complete. And it hits me. That this was the last Christmas I ever spent with everyone in my family. I remember the yelling. I remember the broken bowls. I remember what I got for Christmas. It's the last one I spent with them, because I won't make it in time for the next few. I won't make it in time cause I will be in Afghanistan, I won't make it in time because before I was due to come back for a Christmas break, they would have di-

I told Harry everything. She laughed and made fun of me but she finally realized I was serious. She paled and nearly fai- the point is. I spent the whole day with them. I memorized their faces, their laugh, and everything. I didn't want to go to bed, I sat up with my parents in their bed and let them tell me stories and it hurt _so_ bad...

I didn't want to go to bed. I didn't want to know what reality was, but my parents laughed me off and kissed me on the forehead and told me that they'll see me tomorrow. But because I was really hesitant and starting to get really annoying, Harry took me away. She promised me that she'll remember, that she'll call me once she gets back from her vacation after Christmas.  
She promised that it was the last thing she'd do for me as my older sister, and I fell asleep to her singing; she has a lovely voice, you know, I used to give her hell for it although I loved it; and when I woke up...

I was in Afghanistan. Christmas day. I got my wish. I saw them one last time. It wasn't enough. It'll _never_ be enough.

_But what was I supposed to do after that?_

I wanted nothing more than to give up, but I remembered Harry telling me that I needed to live. To carry on the Watson family name and spread the love we all shared despite our flaws. That I can't break my promise to be _there_, to answer when she calls.

So I waited. Sure enough, she called. Only once a year, mind you. Two weeks before Christmas. And on Christmas Eve, I'd meet my family again. She rem-"

"Yoohoo. John, look at you. Talking to yourself. Is Sherlock out?"

"Ye- Yes, Mrs H. He'll be back soon, though."

"You look a bit ill, dear. Must be all the running around with Sherlock, you poor thing. Let me see if I have more soup in the kitchen."

"Thanks. Do you have cookies as well?" John asks, trying to hide the fact that he's about to break down in tears.

If Mrs Hudson notices his red-rimmed eyes, she wisely chooses not to comment on it, much to John's gratitude.

"Still not your housekeeper, dear. But I'll check. Now take a rest before Sherlock gets back."

John grins in reply and obediently sits on the sofa. He makes himself comfortable before starting to mumble quietly to himself again.

He needs Sherlock to understand.

* * *

"Sherlock, where are you going for Christmas?"

"To Mummy's place. Christmas dinner. Do you have anything that can excuse my absence?"

"Probably not. Do you trust me, Sherlock?"

At this, Sherlock looks up and stares back in John's warm, blue eyes. He nods minutely, and that's all the answer that John needs.

"I'm going to tell you a story. It may be improbable or unbelievable, but I want you to trust me."

"Should I be afraid?"

"Yeah. But remember that I won't ever lie to you. You have to remember that."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

"Sounds serious."

"It is. You ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

"Before that, I'm asking you to accompany me to my family's Christmas Eve dinner."

Sherlock frowns.

"And your family would consist of..."

"My Mum, Dad, Harry, my three-year-old niece, and me."

"John, you told me that your parents ar-"

"They're deceased. Yes."

"I've got to hand it to you, John. This may be one of the few times you hear me saying this, so cherish it. I honestly do not understand what you're saying."

"Sherlock, would you like to join my family and me for dinner?"

John sees how impatient he's making Sherlock, but he can't seem to explain himself well enough. At the back of his mind, he hears a voice, one that is suspiciously like Harry's, telling him that he's not trying hard enough.

"You're saying that we're going to have dinner. At a cemetery."

John shakes his head.

_No. We're not going to the cemetery. We're going back in time. To celebrate Christmas Eve with my family. Ha! Jokes on you, cause this isn't a joke. Seriously._

Oh god. It would sound insane. It's ridiculous. John prepares getting up and hiding in his closet to escape the inevitable embarrassment that comes with Sherlock's response.

"John. Explain."

And so, John explains.

* * *

"Will it work?"

"I don't know."

"This is impossible." Sherlock says again, for what feels like the 7th time. (_It is the 7th time, John knows, he's been keeping track._)

"I thought you hated repetition."

"Why would you tell me this? Why... would you want _me_ to come with you?"

"Because you're one of the most important person in my life. You're my best friend, Sherlock. And... and I trust you."

"Sentiment."

"Yeah. An affliction suffered by us normal humans."

"You're hardly normal, John."

"Thanks. Ready?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath.

"Always."

* * *

Stupid alarm clock. John knocks it off the bedside table in retaliation to the atrocious sound it's making.

"Ouch!"

"Wha-"

John looks down and is greeted by a mop of dark curls. The owner of the messy hair is currently staring daggers at John.

"Oops."

"I'll get back at you for that."

"So petty."

Sherlock continues glaring at John while John looks around with a sad smile on his face.

His messy books spread on the table, with clothes scattered about, looking like a freaking tornado visited his room while he was sleeping. John feels like a completely different person. At 28, he was messy and carefree. At 34, he's neat, reserved, though still bloody hilarious, don't let Sherlock tell you otherwise.

"Your scar. It's gone." Sherlock says quietly, despite being moments away from an epic sulk a few minutes ago.

"Yeah. I'm 28. In fact..." John gives Sherlock a once-over and giggles. "You look pretty young yourself."

Sherlock's thinner than he is back at 2012, hair more unruly than ever, with cheekbones more distinct, sharper than ever. _It could kill someone_. John means that quite literally.

When they hear the sound of people yelling, their attention is directed towards the commotion downstairs.

"Harold! Stay away from the kitchen! No. Get out! Don't make me use the broom on you!"

"It was just a bowl."

"You can come back when you buy me a new one. Can't even wash up without being a hazard to others. No. Don't come close to me. I'm mad at you."

"Honey, you can't stay mad at me. I'm Harold Watson. Handsome, charming-"

"And terrible at housework. Stop distracting me, dear. Go wake the children up."

"Harry! John! Sophie! Get down here!"

"Go_ up_ and get them. Are you trying to make me deaf, old man?"

The loud smack of a kiss is heard and the sound of someone walking up the stairs follows.

"Jo- Who the living daylights is that boy under your bed, John?"

Harry rushes out of her room at that question. She takes in the scene before her, and winks at Sherlock, who stares back at her, bewildered and sheepish at the implication.

"Oh. That's Sherlock. He's... visiting."

There are better introductions to be had, John muses.

"If he's your best friend, why are we only meeting him now, huh?" Harry quips.

"Before you conclude anything, this is so not what it looks like. Dad, we'll come down in 10 minutes and explain everything, okay?"

"Uh... o-kay?"

"Okay." John repeats, more firmly this time.

"What's taking you so-" Mrs Watson appears, and the sight before her makes her stop dead in her tracks.

Some kind of staring contest happens at this point, much to John's amusement and Sherlock's chagrin. It is then followed by a bunch of people talking at the same time, all of whom are finally interrupted and silenced by the Watson matriarch.

"Children, get yourselves clean and ready for breakfast. Harold, stop looking like a confused penguin who suddenly finds himself stuck in a desert."

John grins at his mother, and feels a stab of pain in his chest when he realizes how much he misses her awful yet incredibly entertaining analogies. Hell, how much he misses her. Period.

"What are you all waiting for? The pancakes are getting cold. Quick!"

Everyone is moved into action with smiles on their faces. Everyone, bar Sherlock, of course. Sherlock just feels like he's been dropped into another dimension of some sort. Which is, in a way, absolutely right.

* * *

"Does anyone in your family know that they're de-"

"Harry does. I explain it to her each year. She remembers everything that happens up till the 23rd of March the following year, but every time, on Christmas Eve, she forgets."

"Is everything the same?"

"Mostly, yeah."

"Can't you..."

Sherlock is hesitant and John knows why. He just needs to hear Sherlock say it, to ensure that Sherlock believes him fully.

"Can't I what?"

"Stop them from dying?" Sherlock asks, voice slightly above a whisper.

"I tried once."

"What happened?"

"I got shot."

* * *

"John, who_ is_ Sherlock?"

"He's my best friend, Mum. He helped me through some difficult times, and..."

"They're the same kind of crazy."

"Harry, your brother is not crazy."

Harold guffaws in response. Sherlock's lips twitches in amusement.

"He attracts trouble and danger, hun. Like flame to the moth... wait was it the opposite? Just... something like that." He gestures carelessly as he speaks.

"Dad, sometimes I can't believe you're a teacher. Do your students _actually_ listen to you?" John teases.

"Hey now. Be nice, or I'll take your presents back to the shops."

"Ooh. Scary." Harry interrupts with her nose scrunched up, ready to sneeze.

"Bad grandpa!"

They all turn and coo at little Sophie, while Harold pretends to look offended at being referred to as 'bad'.

"I'm not _bad_."

He turns to Sherlock. "I'm not bad."

"Of course not, Mr Watson."

"Is that sarcasm I detect, young man?"

Harold tries to look intimidating; though, it is, as usual, misinterpreted by the others as him suffering from constipation. Harry can be heard all the way from the kitchen, with her loud and maniacal giggling.

"Definitely not, sir."

"HONEY. HE CALLED ME SIR."

"What have you done?" Harry moans.

"YOU ARE A FINE YOUNG MAN. YOU CAN COME STAY HERE ANYTIME YOU WISH."

Harold disappears into the kitchen with a wide grin on his face. Sherlock looks the slightest bit baffled, and is comforted when John appears at his side.

"No one has called him sir since he made a _really_ lame joke at school. Like, a _really_ bad, lame joke. His students adore him to pieces, but would never indulge him by calling him that."

"Your family is interesting. I can see why you miss them."

John's face falls. Sherlock takes the time to figuratively hit himself on the head with a stick.

"I'm sorry. That was Not Good."

"It's fine. It's all fine."

Sherlock takes note of how John's eyes keep darting about, trying to take in everything he sees. He wonders how he would feel if their situations were reversed. But then again, he's never been too close with his own family. He wonders how it would be if he could only spend one day with John, the same day each year, but not being able to stop him from dying.

"Good gosh, Sherlock. Breathe."

Sherlock lets out the breath that he's been holding and clutches John's wrist tightly.

"Promise me you'll never die."

It's a silly request, _completely_ _irrational_, he knows, but the sudden thought that there might be a time without John by his side, it frightens him so much that he's unable to think straight.  
He hopes that he'll never live in a world where a Sherlock Holmes exists without a John Watson. He doesn't think that he'll be able to survive that, if that happens.

_When_ that happens, his traitorous brain helpfully supplies.

"I can't promise you that, but I'll damn well try to live as long as I can. Will that be okay?" John replies seriously.

Kind, brave, wonderful John. John, who doesn't mock him or make fun of him for being himself.

"Sherlock?"

They say that when someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.

John makes Sherlock feel safe. Sherlock trusts him with his life, and John does too. Probably not with keeping the toes or other human appendages out of the fridge, but when it comes to the things that _really matter_, they're willing to do anything for the other. (_Sherlock, salmonella matters. It matters in the sense that I don't want to suffer from it._ Shush, John. I'm thinking.)

If that's not love, then Sherlock admits that he doesn't know what love is. And he won't give a damn. Because he loves John, and John loves him. It's platonic, sure, but their friendship is one that would last till the end of time. Why?

Because they're Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, that's why. Any argument you have will automatically be deemed irrelevant and wrong.

They're two people that are destined to have a profound and close bond, no matter what universe they find themselves in, Sherlock concludes. Of course, he has no idea about Actor!Sherlock and Actor!John, Tennis Players!Sherlock and John, Sherlock and Joan; all of them. It proves his theory. They're all essentially the same people, but the things that they all have in common is the love and bond they have for the other. They have an epic friendship that people can only dream of.

"Sherlock? You okay?"

"Yes. John?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for letting me meet your family."

_Thank you for trusting me when the whole world finds it easier to doubt me._

"They like you."

_You're part of my family now, you know. There's still time to run, if you want._

"They're nice."

_The family I never had. Acceptance I've never felt, except when I'm with you._

"Boys, stop standing around. Sherlock, sit down. You're too tall, dear, and my neck hurts."

"Man, you guys really have some serious telepathic conversation going on right there." Harry says, with something alike to wonder in her eyes.

"Mrs Watson, would you like some assistance with carrying the dishes out?"

"You can't even get your own cellphone out of your _pocket_, and here you are, offering to assist my mum with preparing the table?" John asks incredulously.

Sherlock huffs at John and receives a scowl in return.

"Okay Watsons. And one Holmes." Harold giggles. "Time to eat!"

* * *

"Remember when I asked you about Christmas gifts?

"Oh. Yeah."

"Was that where you disappeared to last year?"

_I usually just sit by her grave and have a bit of a cry._

"Maybe."

"Can I come with, this time?"

"Really?"

"You're not alone anymore, John."

"I really am not, am I? Sure. But you gotta shed some tears, Sherlock. My mum would be disappointed, otherwise."

"Pfft. You underestimate me."

"Like how you underestimated little Sophie?"

"Vicious child, that one. I've never met one with enough ruthlessness to ruin my hair with chocolate cake."

"You got beat up by a _baby_."

"Shut up."

* * *

**A/N**:

I really hope this fic is acceptable. And I'm sorry if it's nothing like what you expected. I was honestly going to write a whole lot of fluffy goodness as to how Sherlock meets John's family and it's cute and funny and adorable... but the dark side consumed me and then there was attempted angst and_ KILL EVERYONE CAUSE THAT'S FUN AHAHA HAHA HAH HA A_.

If I say that I have the attention span of a goldfish, will that in any way justify this fic? Yeah. I didn't think so. No, don't look at me like that, I'm not crazy. /screeches/


End file.
